This Desperate Man
Excuse me? Did someone say Cocktober?!
Happy Birthday to Gustave Courbet (10 June 1819) — the most arrogant man in France, the father of realism, and the reason the Poet Chaotique logo looks like that.
Some artistic lineages you choose. Some choose you via a 180-year-old self-portrait of a man pulling his own hair out. I had a lot of fun deep-diving into fun facts about this particular man and making these lovely slides. So enjoy!
I’ve been debating doing a writing challenge in the autumnal months. You have Verse Traps in June & this year we had Japeril in April. Any takers for a more chaotic gothic register for perhaps October? I’m open to names. Unfortunately, my brain is stuck firmly in Verse Traps territory right now and keeps shouting, rather unhelpfully, the word COCKTOBER!
And now, returning back to our usual scheduled programming, with a poem.
Speaking of chaotic gothic… or should that be chaotique gothique?
False Alarms The corridors are alive again!—walls dripping —sequins / staircases / breeding moss / chandeliers unmade with bitten fruit I wake— to the sound of tambourines corralled by foxes / to the smell of sugarglass breaking / under barefoot dancers Nothing is straight here: the halls curl their tongues / the maps knot themselves every locked door hums / until you press your ear & it swallows you whole I decree midnight! —picnics in the catacombs: bread buttered with starlight / goblets filled with echo / the children chalk riddles on the cobblestones / & the riddles hatch into birds that will not perch Lanterns grow teeth / sing lullabies / backwards trade in curiosities—one secret for a spool of lightning / two heart— breaks for a paper crown I sit on a throne of stolen signposts crown of splintered hourglasses cloak stitched from untranslatable words Every visitor is knighted with a feather dipped in honey / every exile chased through the labyrinth by laughter that bites the kingdom grows sideways / diagonally / riotous & impossible No one leaves without their pockets / heavier, their mouths full of sparks / & still the corridors breathe, demanding more— more wonder / more ruin / more feral delight The labyrinth does not end; it only folds you / deeper / until you cannot tell whether you are guest / prisoner / or; king!
As you may be able to tell, this poem was almost certainly written around the same time I declared myself The Goblin King of Poetry, and the outfit in that photo isn’t doing me any favours there! You should all just count yourselves lucky that the photo is only shot from the waist up.
Anyway, I’ll be back on Sunday with your usual tirade of Verse Trappin’ nonsense!
Until then, byeeeeeeeeeeee!
RST xo
P.S. if you listened to the audio and heard me make a silly little mistake while reading my own poem aloud, shush now, no, you didn’t, couldn’t have been me, I was off being far too busy convincing people it’s actually pronounced jaslight.
I don’t want to suggest that in waiting for your poems to be written & shared, I have morphed into my own figure of the desperate man, but my DMs are invitingly waiting with bated breath, open mouth, & a big, wet, dripping tongue.